THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


THIS  VOLUME 
CONTAINS   THE    FOLLOWING 

FAMOUS  RECITATIONS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 
FRANK   H.   GASSAWAY 


The  Pride  of  Battery  B.  Bay  Billy 
The  Dandy  Fifth  The  Wharf  Rat 
The  Sharpshooter's  Miss  "Guilty" 
Flag  of  Our  Fleet  "Here" 

Woman's  Day  The  Marines 

Etc.  Etc. 


POEMS 

By 
FRANK  HARRISON  GASSAWAY 


NEW  YORK 
JAMES  T.  WHITE  &  CO., 

1 980 


THIS   VOLUME 
OF   PATRIOTIC   VERSE 

IS    DEDICATED 

WITH    SINCERE   ESTEEM    AND   ADMIRATION 
TO 

WILLIAM  RANDOLPH  HEARST 

THE   GREATEST   PUBLISHER,   THE   GREATEST   AMERICAN, 
AND  THE  GREATEST-HEARTED  GENTLEMAN 

ITS   AUTHOR 
HAS    EVER    KNOWN. 


COPYRIGHTED    IQ2O  BY 
JAMES   T.    WHITE   &   CO. 


CONTENTS 

FOREWORD      7 

NARRATIVE    ' 

ADVANCE     17 

IN    '26    2O 

A  WAR  TRAGEDY 2$ 

THE  GENERAL'S  CLOAK    28 

THE  SHARPSHOOTER'S  MISS  32 

BAY    BILLY     38 

THE  PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  B 44 

THE  DAY  OLD  BET  WAS   SOLD 48 

THE   WHARF  RAT    54 

JIMMIK     58 

GUILTY    DO 

THE  DANDY  FIFTH  63 

PATRIOTIC 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  BEAR 71 

SARGINT  BURKE  73 

THE  MARINES       75 

MEMORIAL  DAY   77 

THE  FLAG  OF  OUR  FLEET 8o 

"CARRY  ON"   84 

"HERE"    86 

MISCELLANEOUS 

JUNE     91 

THE  KNIGHTS  OF  GUTENBERG 93 

A  LITTLE  WHILE  96 

TO  A  DEAD  CHILD 98 

WOMAN'S  DAY  99 

A  MAY  QUEEN  IO3 

SOUL     104 

602261 

ITDIMDV 


FOREWORD 

A  LTHOUGH  widely  known  for  many  years 
•^*>  as  one  of  the  most  popular  and  universally 
copied  of  the  humorist  fraternity  it  was  not 
until  the  publication  of  his  poem  "The  Pride  of 
Battery  B"  that  Frank  Gassaway  became,  over 
night,  as  it  were,  still  more  widely  accepted  as 
a  poet  whose  gift  of  touching  the  chords  of  the 
human  heart  made  his  verses  household  words 
wherever  English  was  spoken. 

Written  over  a  generation  ago  this  poem  by 
a  Southern  writer  was  an  ecb^  of  the  olive 
branch  spirit  of  Finch's  "The  31ue  and  The 
Gray"  and  its  instant  popularity  south  of  Mason 
and  Dixon's  Line  evinced  that  its  appeal  to  the 
forget-and-forgive  spirit  of  the  veterans  on  both 
sides  of  the  great  Civil  War  was  welcome  to  all 
parts  of  our  country. 

Within  six  months  after  its  appearance  in  the 
Examiner  of  San  Francisco  it  was  copied  in  over 
two  thousand  papers,  and  in  fact  it  found  its 
way  into  print  wherever  the  English  tongue  is 
spoken.  Up  to  this  date  it  has  appeared  in  fifty- 
two  books  of  recitations,  and  has  been  recited 
on  the  stage  and  elsewhere  countless  thousands 
of  times,  only  Sheridan's  Ride  and  "Jim 
Bludsoe"  rivaling  it  in  popularity  among  elocu 
tionists.  Mrs.  James  Brown  Potter  the  actress- 

7 


elocutionist  gave  it  the  chief  place  on  her  pro 
grams  during  her  three  round-the-world  trips, 
and  many  other  actors  and  actresses  introduced 
it  as  a  feature  of  their  plays. 

An  instance  of  the  universality  of  its  vogue 
occurred  in  the  late  eighties  during  what  was 
unfortunately  proved  to  be  the  last  tour  of  the 
then  idol  of  the  American  public,  Clara  Morris. 

During  her  season  at  the  California  Theatre 
in  San  Francisco  she  was  tendered  a  "High 
Jinks"  and  banquet  by  the  famous  Bohemian 
Club  of  that  city.  A  novel  feature  of  the  en 
tertainment  being  that  Miss  Morris  was  the  only 
woman  present  among  the  four  hundred  club 
members,  who  assembled  to  do  her  honor.  As 
Miss  Morris  was  not  due  to  appear  until  the 
close  of  her  performance  that  evening  the  as 
sembled  guests  enlivened  their  wait,  according  to 
their  time  honored  custom,  by  appointing  a 
"Shanhai  Committee"  whose  duty  it  was  to  seize 
upon  incoming  guests  qualified  to  speak,  sing  or 
recite,  and  call  upon  them  for  entertainment. 
The  first  of  these  haled  to  the  stage  was  Clay 
Greene  the  well  known  dramatist.  The  victim 
said  that  in  lieu  of  a  speech  he  would  give  his 
favorite  poem.  He  then  recited  "The  Pride  of 
Battery  B."  The  next  entertainer  to  appear  and 
be  requisitioned  by  the  committee  was  Harry 
Edwards,  equally  famed  as  an  actor  and  a 


scientist,  and  then  appearing  in  the  first  act  only 
of  the  Morris  play.  He  recited  "The  Pride  of 
Battery  B."  Later  E.  H.  Sothern,  the  elder,  who 
had  specially  telescoped  his  performance  of  Lord 
Dundreary  at  the  Bush  St.  Theatre,  appeared 
in  the  doorway  of  the  Assembly  room,  and  upon 
being  hurried  to  the  stage  said  that  he  would  try 
to  give  his  favorite  poem,  written  he  believed 
by  a  California  writer.  He  recited  "The  Pride 
cf  Battery  B." 

An  hour  later  the  rattle  of  wheels  outside 
announced  the  arrival  of  the  committee  escorting 
the  guest  of  the  evening  whose  appearance  was 
hailed  by  cheers,  after  which  the  company  pro 
ceeded  to  the  banquet.  When  the  black  coffee 
stage  was  reached  "Uncle"  George  Bromley, 
that  most  charming  and  witty  of  toast-masters, 
proposed  the  health  of  the  star.  In  replying  the 
guest  stated  that  nothing  was  more  embarrassing 
to  her  than  attempting  a  speech,  but  that  if  it 
was  permitted  she  would  strive  to  entertain  the 
company  by  giving  the  dearest  of  all  poems.  She 
recited  "The  Pride  of  Battery  B,"  with  such 
touching  effect  that  for  some  minutes  after  its 
conclusion  there  was  a  profound  silence,  though 
the  elocutionist  was  somewhat  mystified  by  the 
merriment  that  mingled  with  the  company's  ap 
plause,  until  she  was  informed  that  hers  was  the 
fourth  repetition  of  the  piece  that  evening.  I^ater 
9 


on,  by  universal  request,  she  again  gave  the 
verses,  standing  on  the  table  for  the  purpose. 

About  two  months  afterward,  at  the  conclu 
sion  of  her  tour,  the  creator  of  "Miss  Multon" 
was  granted  a  similar  ovation  by  the  Lotus  Club 
of  New  York,  then  the  predecessor  of  the 
present  Players  Club.  At  this  function  she  was 
again  the  only  woman  present.  The  fact  that 
there  was  during  the  same  week  two  large 
national  conventions  meeting  in  New  York,  the 
Republican  and  the  G.  A.  R.,  inspired  the  com 
mittee  having  charge  of  the  affair  to  make  a 
special  effort  to  secure  the  attendance  of  a  num 
ber  of  exceptionally  distinguished  persons.  So 
successful  were  their  efforts  that  it  is  probable 
that  a  more  notable  company  of  history  makers, 
and  really  famous  men,  never  gathered  under 
the  same  roof. 

The  occasion  was  almost  a  repetition  of  Bo 
hemian  Club  tribute, — the  star  of  the  evening  in 
responding  to  the  welcoming  speech  by  Chaun- 
cey  Depew  said  that  as  one  half  of  her  heart 
was  on  the  Pacific,  and  the  other  on  the  Atlantic 
side  of  the  continent,  she  could  do  no  better  than 
reply  in  the  same  fashion  that  she  had  to  her 
California  friends.  She  recited  "The  Pride  of 
Battery  B,"  and  this  she  repeated  later  in  the 
evening  in  response  to  an  insistent  encore. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  banquet  some  thirty 
10 


of  the  more  notable  of  those  present  retired  to 
the  chess  room  of  the  club  where  a  special  sym 
posium  was  held,  and  where,  to  oblige  some  later 
comers,  once  more  the  poem  was  called  for  and 
given. 

About  one  A.  M.  two  more  belated  guests  ap 
peared,  Whitelaw  Reid  accompanied  by  Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  who  had  been  lecturing  at 
Steinway  Hall  that  evening,  and  who  had  ex 
pressed  especial  desire  to  meet  Miss  Morris. 
On  hearing  of  what  occurred  Mr.  B.  urged  that 
the  coincidence  should  be  made  complete  and 
for  a  fourth  time  the  lines  were  given.  Where 
upon  at  the  suggestion  of  Beecher  a  committee 
of  cne  was  appointed  to  transmit  to  the  author 
a  note  of  appreciation  from  the  gathering. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  being  selected,  thai 
famous  writer  utilized  his  menu  card   for   the 
purpose,  writing  on  its  reverse  side : 
Dear  friend  and  poet : 

I  have  been  appointed  as  a  committee  to  ex 
press  to  you  the  very  great  pleasure  afforded  us 
all  by  Miss  Clara  Morris'  recitation  of  your 
more  than  beautiful  poem  "The  Pride  of  Battery 
B." 

I  trust  you  will  be  able  to  decipher  this, — for — 
just  having  heard  your  exquisitely  tender  verses 
for  the  fourth  time — the  lines  seem  somewhat 
11 


blurred — my  eyesight  is  pretty  good,  too. 
With  sincerest  admiration  we  are,  dear  poet, 
Yours  gratefully, 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

This  was  followed  by  some  twenty  odd  sig 
natures  such  as  that  of  General  Grant  (then 
engaged  in  writing  his  memoirs,  and  his  last 
public  appearance),  Generals  Sherman  and 
Porter,  Senators  Conkling,  Lamar  and  Gorman, 
Speaker  Elaine,  John  Russell  Young,  Cornelius 
Vanderbilt,  Sir  William  Eden,  Chas.  A.  Dana, 
Bancroft  Davis,  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  White- 
law  Reid,  Bayard  Taylor  and  others,  while  the 
stage  was  represented  by  the  signatures  of 
Jefferson,  Booth,  Daly,  Mayer,,  Daniel  Frohman, 
Florence  and  others. 

In  fact  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  the  names  of  a 
more  distinguished  array  of  notables  ever  ap 
peared  on  the  same  piece  of  paper. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  card  was  written 
Very  dear  poet : 

This  is  the  proudest  and  happiest  moment  of 
my  life.  CLARA  MORRIS. 

This   autographical   treasure   was   framed  by 

its  recipient  and  presented  by  him  to  Col.  John 

P.  Jackson,  then  the  U.   S.  Treasurer  at  San 

Francisco,  and  publisher  of  the  Evening  Post 

12 


of  that  city. 

Innumerable  attempts  were  made  by  autograph 
collectors  to  purchase  this  unique  document,  one 
owner  of  a  great  eastern  weekly  publication, 
whose  collection  is  said  to  be  the  costliest  in  the 
world,  offering  a  figure  of  several  thousands  for 
it.  It,  however,  met  a  martyr-like  fate,  going 
up  in  the  blaze  that  reduced  its  owner's  mansion 
to  a  cinder  in  the  great  fire  that  practically  elim 
inated  San  Francisco  from  the  map. 

Among  the  other  poems  of  Mr.  Gassaway  that 
have  obtained  wide  favor  and  are  perennially 
popular  with  elocutionists  wherever  our  lan 
guage  is  spoken  are  "The  Dandy  Fifth,"  "Ad 
vance,"  "The  Flag  of  Our  Fleet,"  "The  Gen 
eral's  Cloak,"  "The  Sharpshooter's  Miss,"  "The 
Wharf  Rat,"  "Guilty,"  "A  Little  While," 
"Woman's  Day,"  "The  Marines"  and  others 
which  appear  in  this  volume. — The  Publishers. 


13 


NARRATIVE 


"ADVANCE!" 

When  war's  wild  clamor  filled  the  land, 

When  Porter  swept  the  sea, 
When  Grant  held  Vicksburg  by  the  throat 

And  Halleck  strove  with  Lee, 
It  chanced  that  Custer's  cavaliers — 

The  flower  of  all  our  horse — 
Held  Hood's  brigade  at  Carroll's  ford, 

Where  still  it  strove  to  cross. 
Three  days  the  stubborn  skirmish  raged — 

The  lines  still  closer  grew — 
And  now  the  rebels  gained  an  inch 

And  now  the  men  in  blue; 
Until  at  length  the  Northern  swords 

Hemmed  in  the  footmen  gray, 
And  each  side  girded  for  the  shock 

That  won — or  lost — the  day. 
Twas  scarce  a  lance's  length  between 

The  torn  and  trampled  banks 
O'er  which  our  neighing  squadrons  faced 

The  hard-pressed  Southern  ranks. 
And  while  Hood's  sullen  soldiers  crouched 

Along  the  river's  marge, 
His  pickets  brought  a  prisoner  in — 

Captured  in  some  brief  charge. 
This  was  a  stripling  trumpeter, 

A  mere  lad — fitter  far 
To  grace  some  loving  mother's  hearth 
17 


Than  these  grim  scenes  of  war. 
Yet  still,  with  proud,  defiant  mien 

He  bore  his  soldier  crest, 
And  smiled  above  the  shattered  arm 

That  hung  upon  his  breast. 
For  was  not  he  Staff  Trumpeter 

Of  Custer's  famed  brigade? 
Did  not  the  General  speak  through  him 

In  camp  or  on  parade? 
'Twas  his  to  form  the  battle  line ; 

His  was  the  clarion  peal 
That  launched  upon  the  frighted  foe 

That  surging  sea  of  steel ! 
They  led  him  to  the  outer  post 

Within  the  tangled  wood, 
Beyond  whose  edge  on  chafing  steeds 

His  waiting  comrades  stood. 
They  placed  his  bugle  in  his  hand 

(A  musket  leveled  nigh) — 
"Now,  Yankee,  sound  a  loud  'Retreat !' 

They  whispered  ;   "Sound — or  die !" 
The  lad  looked  up  a  little  space — 

A  lark's  song  sounded  clear, 
As  if  to  ask  why  men  had  brought 

Their  deeds  of  hatred  here — 
High  in  the  blue  the  south  wind  swept 

A  single  cloud  of  foam, 
A  messenger — it  seemed  to  him — 

To  bear  his  last  thought  home. 
18 


Then,  casting  t'warcl  that  Northland  far 

One  sad  hut  steadfast  glance, 
He  raised  the  bugle  to  his  lips 

And  blew — the  "Grand  Advance!" 
A  bullet  cut  the  pean  short, 

But,  ere  his  senses  fled, 
He  heard  that  avalanche  of  hoofs 

Thunder  above  his  head! 
He  saw  his  comrades'  sabres  sweep 

Resistless  o'er  the  plain, 
And  knew  his  trumpet's  loyal  note 

Had  sounded  not  in  vain. 
For,  when  they  laid  him  in  his  rest — 

His  bugle  by  his  side — 
His  lips  still  smiled — for  Victory 

Had  kissed  them  ere  he  died ! 


19 


IN  '26 

A  San  Francisco  Grandfather's  Story  of  the 
Days  of  Nineteen  Six 


"Grandpa,"  a  rosy  schoolboy  said, 

His  eager  face  aglow, 
"Why  is  to-day  a  holiday, 

And  all  the  streets  below 
Crowded  with  joyful  folk,  who  march 

With  rose-wreathed  spades  and  picks, 
With  Bear  flags,  and  great  banners 

Marked  'Six,  and  Twenty-six?' 


II 


"Why  are  the  bands  all  playing, 

'Mid  soldiers  mile  on  mile? 
And  long,  long  lines  of  carriages 

Of  gray-haired  men,  who  smile 
At  those  who  hail  them  as  they  pass, 

And  strew  with  flowers  their  way? 
Wrhy  ''o  they  cheer  as  though  the  world 

Ne'er  saw  so  great  a  day?" 
20 


Ill 

"It  is  a  wondrous  story,  lad, 

Just  twenty  years  have  gone 
Since  we  who  lived  in  Nineteen  Six, 

On  such  an  April  morn 
As  this,  endured  the  direst  fate 

That  all  Time's  records  tell, 
When  all  the  sky  was  lurid  flame — 

The  earth  a  blazing  hell ! 

IV 

"When  woe  and  horror — want  and  fear 

And  death  walked  hand  in  hand, 
When  mother's  wail  o'er  homeless  babes 

Filled  all  the  stricken  land, 
When  famine  grew — till  from  yon  hills 

The  watchers  wan  could  spy 
The  smoky  flags  of  rescue  rise 

From  out  the  Eastern  sky! 


"Ah!  boy,  to  me  that  awful  time 
A  nightmare  still  doth  seem. 

And  what  I  see  to-day  appears 
No  less  a  wondrous  dream — 
21 


In  which  these  palaces  of  trade 
That  mark  our  city's  might, 

Were  reared  by  a  magician's  wand, 
Created  in  a  night. 


VI 

"For  greater  than  our  cruel  loss 

Were  those  great  hearts  of  yore, 
Who,  even  as  the  ruin  spread, 

Clasped  hands  above  and  swore 
That  they,  sons  of  the  Pioneers — 

The  children  of  the  Bear — 
Would  build  above  that  dreary  waste 

A  city  still  more  fair! 


VII 

"And  .so,  as  brothers  should,  they  toiled, 

The  rich  and  poor  were  one, 
No  fear,  no  faltering,  was  there 

From  rise  to  set  of  sun. 
The  grumbler  found  no  listener, 

The  drone  no  neighbor's  cheer, 
No  craven  heart  among  the  men, 

The  women  shed  no  tear. 
22 


VIII 

"And  they  who  fled  in  coward  rout, 

When  skulking  back  they  came, 
Met  naught  from  us  who  wrought  save  jests 

To  mock  their  load  of  shame. 
While  up — Still  up! — the  city  rose 

From  blackened  wall  and  sod, 
From  the  first  brick  to  the  last  brick 

All  shoulders  bore  the  hod. 


IX 


"And  California,  fairest 

Of  all  the  States  of  earth, 
Leaned  from  her  ermine  vestured  throne 

And  watched  her  child's  new  birth. 
And  from  her  vales  of  fruit  and  vine, 

Her  hills  of  coffered  gold 
Poured  out  to  speed  the  giant  task 

Her  cheer  and  wealth  untold. 


"Til  San  Francisco,  Queen  that  was, 
Her  scepter  grasped  again, 

And,  throned  on  her  seven  hills, 
An  Empress  now  doth  reign, 
23 


To  mark,  borne  by  her  vassal  seas, 
The  Orient's  priceless  freight, 

The  North  and  South  lands'  argosies 
Enter  her  Golden  Gate. 

XI 

"Ah !  'tis  the  bravest  story,  lad, 

That  e'er  was  writ  or  sung, 
And  'round  the  whole  great  globe  to-day 

'Tis  told  in  every  tongue, 
You'll  find,  my  boy,  in  every  land 

To  which  your  steps  may  roam, 
A  royal  welcome  waits  for  him 

Who  calls  your  birthplace  home." 


24 


A  WAR  TRAGEDY 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  doing  fine — just  fine," 

The  wounded  Sammy  said 
To  the  sweet-faced  little  Red  Cross  nurse 

That  bent  above  his  bed. 
"This  phoney  arm  and  busted  rib 

Ain't  nuthin'  but  a  joke — 
It  brings  fine  grub — real  beds — and  lots 

Of  time  to  loaf  and  smoke. 

There's  naught  in  this  to  growl  about, 

These  shrap'  dents  ain't  the  first 
I've  run  against  out  at  the  front, 

And  things  a  dam  sight  worse. 
Oh,  no,  I  don't  mean  bay 'net  work — 

Nor  bombs — nor  poison  gas. 
You  soon  get  used  to  them  and  shells 

That  every  minute  pass. 

Nor  tain't  the  mud  and  cold  of  which 

The  writer  fellows  tell ; 
But  awful  unexpected  things, 

That  makes  war  seem  just  hell. 
What  things?    Well,  I  can  think  of  one 

111  ne'er  in  life  forget — 
Awake — asleep— that  fearful  time 

Seems  like  a  nightmare  yet. 
25 


Our  boys,  they  held  a  first-line  trench — 

With  both  ends  shot  away. 
For  three  whole  days  no  help  or  grub 

Could  come  to  where  we  lay. 
Well — we  ate  snow,  and  cinched  our  belts, 

And  tried  to  sing  and  shout, 
But  one  thing  broke  our  hearts  at  last — 

Our  smokes  had  all  give  out! 


And  what  that  means  to  starving  men 

T  ain't  got  words  to  state ! 
Just  the  one  thing  our  raw  nerves  craved 

To  stand  the  gaff — and  wait. 
Just  at  the  breaking  point  the  word 
"Over  the  Top!"  did  come, 
And  more  like  fiends  than  human  men 

We  charged  with  steel  and  bomb. 


We  took  one  trench.    But  rapid-fires 

Got  half  our  men,  or  more, 
So  my  squad — what  was  left — dashed  for 

A  big  shell  hole  we  saw, 
Twas  good  and  deep,  and,  as  we  crouched, 

Down  on  our  heads  there  slid 
A  just-killed  Hun — an  officer 

All  right.    But  as  he  did 
26 


From  out  his  inside  pocket  rolled 

A  box  of  cigarettes! 
It  seemed  a  glimpse  of  Paradise 

To  us  poor  shaken  vets. 
As  first  "Non  Com"  I  grabbed  the  prize 

And  dealt  'em  to  the  men; 
Just  ten  of  them,  and  ten  of  us. 

Ten  swell  cork  tips — just  ten. 

Now  hark !  and  I  will  tell  you  what 

Will  take  your  breath  away, 
And  make  the  blood  freeze  in  your  veins, 

Just  like  mine  did  that  day; 
For  as  each  man  his  trousers  felt 

For  a  dry  place  to  scratch, 
Right  then — then  came  the  awful  blow, 

Nobody  had  a  match! 


27 


THE  GENERAL'S  CLOAK 

On  either  hand  the  trenches  ran, 
Smoke  shrouded  out  of  sight, 

The  great  guns  roared,  the  rifles  flashed 
Like  fireflies  through  the  night, 

While  overhead  the  shrapnel  buzzed — 
Those  hornets  of  the  fight. 

From  far  headquarters  down  the  line 

A  wire  sent  message  comes, 
"The  'Old  Man's'  going  to  send  us  in," 

The  eager  murmur  runs; 
Each  man  refilled  his  cartridge  box, — 

The  gunners  sponged  their  guns. 

The  buglers,  too,  caught  up  their  horns, 

And  one,  with  face  aglow, 
Climbed  to  the  trenches'  wire  girt  top 

Belt  drawn,   foot   forward — so. 
Just  as  a  runner  in  a  race 

Waits  for  the  signal  "Go !" 

Just  then  in  grey  and  ghostly  flight 

The  General's  staff  goes  by 
Quick,  as  the  boy's  unsheltered  form 

Caught  the  great  Captain's  eye, 
He  checked  his  horse,  "Fall  back,  my  lad, 

There's  time  enough  to  die. 
28 


Fall  back !"    The  bugler  faced  about 

As  though  on  dress  parade, 
"We're  going  to  charge,  sir,  when  we  do 

"I  must  lead  the  brigade, 
We'll  lose  a  sergeant — like  as  not, 

I  want  to  rise,"  he  said. 

The  great  man  smiled  upon  the  lad, 

Then  spoke  in  kindly  jest 
"There'll  be  enough  of  vacancies 

Before  we  reach  yon  crest, 
But  stripes  are  not  for  coat  that  has 

A  bullet  through  its  breast." 

The  boy  gazed  at  his  famous  chief 

As  stately  there  he  sat, 
A  General's  stars  about  his  neck 

And  on  his  braided  hat, 
"I  would  not  mind  one,  sir,  that  came 

Through  such  a  coat  as  that." 

But  hark !    The  signal  rockets  wake 
The  cannons  answering  knell, 

And  then  in  madly  fierce  appeal 
The  bugles  piercing  swell, 

Heard  high  above  the  rifles  din 
And  long  lines'  charging  yell. 
29 


A  score  of  gallant  hearts  grew  cold 

With  each  exultant  peal, 
You  know  the  rest,  the  shattered  foe 

That  fled  from  that  red  field. 
Shall  not  our  song  and  story  long  ' 

That  wondrous  tale  reveal? 


And  when  the  wan-faced  moon  arose 

That  ghastly  plain  to  view, 
The  surgeons  sought  with  careful  steps 

To  aid  the  living  few, 
So  thick  upon  that  shell  torn  slope 

Did  Death  its  harvest  strew. 


And  then  once  more  the  General  passed 

With  solemn  searching  eyes, 
Again  he  halts,  "There  lies  the  lad 

That  wished  so  much  to  rise. 
Ah  !  well — perhaps — up  there,"  he  glanced 

Toward  the  star-lit  skies. 


"He  finds  his  recompense,  though  here 

Promotion  he  doth  miss." 
Then,  slipping  off  his  broidered  cape, 

Soft  as  a  mother's  kiss 
He  spread  it  o'er  the  boy  who  longed 

For  such  a  cloak  as  this. 
30 


And  thus  they  laid  him  with  the  rest, 
Though  ne'er  a  sergeant's  bars 

Adorned  his  sleeve,  his  comrades  tell 
How  once  in  all  our  wars 

A  simple  bugler  proudly  slept 
Beneath  a  General's  stars. 


31 


THE  SHARPSHOOTER'S  MISS 

Yes,  that  old  rifle  hanging  there  its  pension,  too, 

has   won ; 
And  every  notch  upon  its  stock  shows  what  its 

aim  has  done. 
"Old  Neverfail's"  the  name  it  earned  from  more 

than  one  brigade; 
And  through  the  war,  from  end  to  end,  but  one 

clear  miss  it  made. 

That  one  ?    Well,  this  was  how  it  came :    'Twas 

down  in  Tennessee, 
Just  after  Richmond   fell,  and   Grant  had  got 

the  sword  of  Lee ; 
Our  regiment,  the  Fourth  Vermont,  for  ten  long 

months  had  fought, 
And  watched — and  chased — a  raider  chief  who 

still  could  not  be  caught. 

We   called   him   "Fly-by-Night"    (a   name   that 

suited  us  well)  ; 
The  moon  ne'er  went  behind  a  cloud  but  rose 

his  charging  yell. 
He'd  fight  and  run,  and  run  and  fight,  but  never 

slipped  away, 
And  which  side  got  the  most  hard  knocks  'twould 

puzzle  me  to  say. 
32 


So,  when  the  big  surrender  came  and  he  got 

word  from  Lee 
To  yield  his  sword,  we  felt  at  last  we'd  nipped 

a  plaguing  flea; 
And  as,  to  give  parole,  rode  in  those  lines  of 

dusty  gray — 
Though  all  our  men  were  full  of  joy,  and  all 

the  bands  did  play— 


We   felt   as  though   a   funeral,   somehow,   was 

going  on, 
To  see  those  gallant  foemen  droop,  all  hopeless 

and  forlorn — 
So  worn  and  wan  their  leader  rode  before  his 

silent  host 
It  seemed  as  though  both  cause  and  man  had 

faded  to  a  ghost! 


And  while  their  arms  were  being  stacked,  the 

parole  being  read, 
He  stood  apart   with   downcast   eyes  and   low 

averted  head; 
But  when  the  color  guard  advanced  to  turn  his 

standard  in, 
He  lifted  to  the  shot-torn  rag  his  haggard  face 

and  thin. 

33 


With  husky  voice  to  gruff  old  Kent,  our  Colonel, 

prim  and  stern, 
He   said :    "With   victory  crowned   to-day  you 

to  your  homes  return, 
Wrhile  we  to  waste  and  ravaged  farms  our  weary 

footsteps  bend, 
Yours  all  the  glory,  ours  the  loss — the  shame — 

the  bitter  end. 


"Grant,  then,    I  bear  from  this  said  spot  one 

remnant  of  my  pride — 
This  ragged  flag,  that  four  long  years  has  floated 

by  my  side. 
From  half  a  score  of  hopeless  rights  I've  borne 

it  in  my  breast ! 

So  take  my  sword  to  Washington  to  hang  among 
the  rest. 


But  leave  this  tattered  shred  to  me.    Our  Colonel 

shook  his  head — 
"No   time    for    buncombe !      Sergeant !     Here ! 

Receive  the  flag,"  he  said. 
The   raider's    face   grew    dark,   and    quick   his 

breath  as  you  have  seen 
The    wounded    stag   pant   when   he   hears    the 

hounds  come  closing  in. 
34 


Hard  by  his  horse  stood — 'gainst  his  cheek  he 

felt  the  banner  waft, — 
Then,  with  one  cat-like  bound,  he  tore  his  idol 

from  its  staff! 
Quick  in  his  teeth  the  colors  caught,  into  the 

saddle  leapt! 
A  shout — a  rush  of  flying  hoofs — off  like  the 

wind  he  swept ! 


Crash !  went  our  volley ;  all  in  vain.     "Quick ! 

Mount !  and  cut  him  down !" 
Our  Colonel  roared;  and  soon  his  staff,  and  all 

who  horses  found 
Tore  after  through  the  floating  dust  the  human 

whirlwind  raised; 
While  all  our  rowells  brought  the  blood  and  all 

our  carbines  blazed. 


He  was  the  comet,  we  the  tail  strung  wildly  out 
behind. 

And  though  our  firing  never  ceased,  still  back 
ward  on  the  wind 

Fluttered  that  flag — and  though  full  oft  his  hard 
hit  horse  would  reel, 

Still  gamely  was  its  rider  borne  in  spite  of  all 
our  steel. 

35 


"We'll  catch  him  by  the  river  cliff,  if  this  the 

course  he  keep!" 
Cried  one.    "The  horse  was  never  foaled  wovrid 

take  that  awful  leap. 
See  there !  they're  down !"     But  no ;  he'd  but 

the  saddle  cast  away; 
And  lightened   even   by  that   weight,   his   roan 

rushed  on  its  way. 


But  when  we  reached  the  river's  edge — sheer 
forty  feet  the  bank — 

Beneath,  a  drifting  stain  of  blood  showed  where 
the  stunned  horse  sank ; 

And,  as  we  watched,  its  rider's  head  rose  mid 
way  in  the  tide 

And  with  the  flag  still  floating  back,  swam  for 
the  other  side. 


"Fire!"  called  the  Colonel,  smiling  grim.    "We'll 

stop  this  bravo's  fun;" 
But    not    a    cartridge    in    the    troop    remained 

unused  save  one. 
That    one    the    Colonel    passed    to    me.      "Old 

Neverfail,"  he  said, 
"Aim  sure  and  let  the  war's  last  shot  be  through 

yon  madman's  head." 
36 


I  took  the  charge  and  slipped  it  home,  then  set 
the  breech-sight  true, 

An  inch  above  the  sun-browned  neck  the  fine 
drawn  bead  I  drew, 

And  glancing  from  the  shining  tube  to  that  dark 
head  below, 

My  comrades  held  their  breath  until  I  pulled — 
and  let  her  go. 

Perhaps  a  sudden  heart-beat  then  the  sure  old 

piece  upflung; 
Or,  maybe,  unbeknown,  a  tear  upon  my  eyelid 

hung. 
All   is  that   something  caused   just   then   "Old 

Neverfail"  to  sag, 
The  only  hole  the  bullet  made  was  one  more 

through  that  flag; 

And  there,  like  men  of  stone,  we  sat  (although 

the  Colonel  swore) 
Until  he'd  safely  stemmed  the  flood  and  gained 

the  further  shore. 
And  somehow,  when  by  camp-fire  light  this  yarn 

the  boys  would  tell, 
They'd  say,  "Although  the  old  gun  missed,  it 

never  shot  so  well." 


37 


BAY  BILLY 

You  may  talk  of  horses  of  renown, 
What  Goldsmith  Maid  has  done, 

How  Dexter  cut  the  seconds  down, 
And   Fello'.vcraft's   great   run. 

Would  you  hear  about  a  horse  that  once 
A  mighty  battle  won? 

'Twas  the  last  fight  at  Fredericksburg, — 

Perhaps  the  day  you  reck 
Our  boys,  the  Twenty-second  Maine, 

Kept  Early's  men  in  check. 
Just  where  \Vade  Hampton  boomed  away 

The  fight  went  neck  and  neck. 

•  All  day  we  held  the  weaker  wing, 

And  held  it  with  a  will. 
Five  several  stubborn  times  we  charged 

The  battery  on  the  hill. 
And  five  times  beaten  back,  reformed, 

And  kept  our  column  still. 

At  last  from  out  the  centre  fight 

Spurred  up  a  general's  aid, 
"That  battery  must  silenced  be !" 

He  cried,  as  past  he  sped. 
Our  colonel  simply  touched  his  cap, 

And  then,  with  measured  tread, 
38 


To  lead  the  crouching  line  once  more 

The  grand  old  fellow  came. 
No  wounded  man  but  raised  his  head 

And  strove  to  gasp  his  name, 
And  those  who  could  not  speak  nor  stir, 

"God  blessed"  him  just  the  same. 

For  he  was  all  the  world  to  us, 

That  hero  gray  and  grim. 
Right  well  he  knew  that  fearful  slope 

We'd  climb  with  none  but  him, 
Though  while  his  white  head  led  the  way 

We'd  charge  hell's  portals  in. 

This  time  we  were  not  half-way  up, 
When,  'midst  the  storm  of  shell, 

Our  leader,  with  his  sword  upraised, 
Beneath  our  bay'nets  fell, 

And,  as  we  bore  him  back,  the  foe 
Set  up  a  joyous  yell. 

Our  hearts  went  with  him.    Back  we  swept, 

And  when  the  bugle  said, 
"Up,  charge  again!"  no  man  was  there 

But  hung  his  dogged  head. 
"We've  no  one  left  to  lead  us  now," 

The  sullen  soldiers  said. 
39 


Just  then  before  the  laggard  line 
The  colonel's  horse  we  spied, 

Bay  Billy  with  his  trappings  on, 
His  nostrils  swelling  wide, 

As  though  still  on  his  gallant  back 
The  master  sat  astride. 


Right  royally  he  took  the  place 

That  was  of  old  his  wont, 
And  with  a  neigh  that  seemed  to  say, 

Above  the  battle's  brunt, 
"How  can  the  Twenty-second  charge 

li  /  am  not  in  front?" 


Like  statues  rooted  there  we  stood 

And  gazed  a  little  space, 
Above  that  floating  mane  we  missed 

The  dear  familiar  face, 
But  we  saw  Bay  Billy's  eye  of  fire, 

And  it  gave  us  heart  of  grace. 

No  bugle  call  could  rouse  us  all 
As  that  brave  sight  had  done, 

Down  all  the  battered  line  we  felt 
A  lightning  impulse  run. 

Up!  up!  the  hill  we  followed  Bill, 
And  captured  every  gun! 
40 


And  when  upon  the  conquered  height 

Died  out  the  battle's  hum, 
Vainly  'mid  living  and  dead 

We  sought  our  leader  dumb. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  spectre  steed 

To  win  that  day  had  come. 

And  then  the  dusk  and  dew  of  night 

Fell  softly  o'er  the  plain, 
As  though  o'er  man's  dread  work  of  death 

The  angels  wept  again, 
And  drew  night's  curtain  gently  round 

A  thousand  beds  of  pain.  . 

All  night  the  surgeons'  torches  went 

The  ghastly  rows  between — 
All  night  with  solemn  step  I  paced 

The  torn  and  bloody  green. 
But  who  that  fought  in  the  big  war 

Such  dread  sights  have  not  seen? 

At  last  the  morning  broke.     The  lark 

Sang  in  the  merry  skies, 
As  if  to  e'en  the  sleepers  there 

It  bade.  Wake,  and  arise! 
Though  naught  but  that  last  trump  of  all 

Could  ope  their  heavy  eyes. 
41 


And  then  once  more,  with  banners  gay, 
Stretched  out  the  long  brigade; 

Trimly  upon  the  furrowed  field 
The  troops  stood  on  parade, 

And  bravely  'mid  the  ranks  were  closed 
The  gaps  the  fight  had  made. 

Not  half  the  Twenty-second's  men 
Were  in  their  place  that  morn, 

And  Corp'ral  Dick,  who  yester-noon 
Stood  six  brave  fellows  on, 

Now  touched  my  elbow  in  the  ranks, 
For  all  between  were  gone. 

Ah !  who  forgets  that  dreary  hour 

When,  as  with  misty  eyes, 
To  call  the  old  familiar  roll 

The  solemn  sergeant  tries, — 
One  feels  that  thumping  of  the  heart 

As  no  prompt  voice  replies. 

And  as  in  falt'ring  tone  and  slow 
The  last  few  names  were  said, 

Across  the  field  some  missing  horse 
Toiled  up  with  weary  tread, 

It  caught  the  sergeant's  eye,  and,  quick, 
Bay  Billy's  name  he  read. 
42 


Yes!  there  the  old  bay  hero  stood, 
All  safe  from  battle's  harms, 

And  ere  an  order  could  be  heard, 
Or  the  bugle's  quick  alarms, 

Down  all  the  front  from  end  to  end 
The  troops  presented  arms! 

Not  all  the  shoulder-straps  on  earth 
Could  still  our  mighty  cheer. 

And  ever  from  that  famous  day, 
When  rang  the  roll-call  clear, 

Bay  Billy's  name  was  read,  and  then 
The  whole  line  answered,  "Here!" 


43 


THE  PRIDE  OF  BATTERY  B 

South  Mountain  towered  on  our  right, 

Far  off  the  river  lay, 
And  over  on  the  wooded  height 

We  held  their  lines  at  bay. 

At  last  the  mutt 'ring  guns  were  stilled, 

The  day  died  slow  and  wan. 
At  last  their  pipes  the  gunners  filled, 

The  sergeant's  yarns  began. 

When,— as  the  wind  a  moment  blew 

Aside  the  fragrant  flood 
Our  brierwoods  raised, — within  our  view 

A  little  maiden  stood. 

A  tiny  tot  of  six  or  seven, 

From  fireside  fresh  she  seemed. 

(Of  such  a  little  one  in  heaven 
One  soldier  often  dreamed). 

And  as  we  stared,  her  little  hand 

Went  to  her  curly  head 
In  grave  salute,  "And  who  are  you?" 

At  length  the  sergeant  said. 
44 


"And  where's  your  home?"  he  growled  again, 

She  lisped  out,  "Who  is  me? 
Why,  don't  you  know?    I'm  little  Jane, 

The  Pride  of  Battery  'B.' 

"My  home?    Why,  that  was  burned  away, 

And  pa  and  ma  are  dead, 
And  so  I  ride  the  guns  all  day 

Along  with  Sergeant  Ned, 

"And  I've  a  drum  that's  not  a  toy, 

A  cap  with  feathers,  too, 
And  I  march  beside  the  drummer-boy 

On  Sundays  at  review; 

"But  now  our  bacca's  all  give  out, 
The  men  can't  have  their  smoke, 

And  so  they're  cross, — why,  even  Ned 
Won't  play  with  me  and  joke. 

"And  the  big  Colonel  said  to-day — 

I  hate  to  hear  him  swear — 
He'd  give  a  leg  for  a  good  pipe 

Like  the  Yanks  had  over  there. 

"And  so  I  thought,  when  beat  the  drum, 

And  the  big  guns  were  still, 
I'd  creep  beneath  the  tent  and  come 

Out  here  across  the  hill, 
45 


"And  beg,  good  Mister  Yankee  men, 
You'd  give  me  some  "Lone  Jack." 

Please  do, — when  we  get  some  again 
I'll  surely  bring  it  back. 

"Indeed  I  will,  for  Ned — says  he, — 

'If  1  do  what  I  say 
I'll  lie  a  general  yet,  maybe, 

And  ride  a  prancing  bay.'  " 

We  brimmed  her  tiny  apron  o'er 
You  .should  have  heard  her  laugh 

As  each  man  from  his  scanty  store 
Shook  out  a  gen'rous  half. 

To  kiss  the  little  mouth  stooped  down 

A  score  of  grimy  men, 
Until  the  Sergeant's  husky  voice 

Said    "  'Tention,    Squad !" — and   then 

We  gave  her  escort,  till  good-night 

The  pretty  waif  we  bid, 
And  watched  her  toddle  out  of  sight, 

Or  else  'twas  tears  that  hid 

Her  tiny  form,  nor  turned  about 

A  man,  nor  spoke  a  word 
Till  after  while  a  far,  hoarse  shout, 

Upon  the  wind  we  heard ! 
46 


We  sent  it  back, — then  cast  sad  eye 

Upon  the  scene  around. 
A  baby's  hand  had  touched  the  tie 

That  brothers  once  had  bound. 

That's  all, — save  when  the  dawn  awoke 

Again  the  work  of  hell, 
And  through  the  sullen  clouds  of  smoke 

The  screaming  missiles  fell, 

Our  Gen'ral  often  rubbed  his  glass, 
And  marvelled  much  to  see 

Not  a  single  shell  that  whole  day  fell 
In  the  lines  of  Battery  "B !" 


47 


THE  DAY  OLD  BET  WAS  SOLD 

I  wandered  where  a  curious  crowd 

Thronged  in  an  open  square 
To  see  an  auction  held,  of  things 

That  were  both  odd  and  rare. 
It  was  a  travelling  showman's  stock 

That  made  the  people  stare. 

There  were  horses  gray  and  ponies  brown, 

And  birds  of  every  kin, 
And  lions  grim,  and  polar  bears, 

And  serpents  long  and  thin : 
An  elephant  was  up  for  sale 

Amid  the  noisy  din. 

Gravely  above  the  gaping  crowd 

The  huge  beast  patient  stood. 
Yet  gazed,  methought,  with  anxious  eye 

Beyond  the  rabble  rude, 
To  where  an  old  man  sat  apart 

In  fixed  and  anxious  mood. 

"And  why  so  sorrowful,  old  man?" 

I  said.     He  raised  his  head, 
His  eyes  were  full  of  the  dumb  grief 

Of  faces  that  are  dead, 
"They're  selling  off  Old  Bet  from  me," 

In  husky  voice  he  said. 
48 


"And  do  you  care  so  much?"    A  tear 
Upon  the  rough  cheek  fell. 

"Stranger,  sit  down  beside  me  here, 
And,  if  you  like,  I'll  tell 

Why  that  old  beast  is  dear  to  me, 
And  why  I  love  her  well. 

Tis  nigh  twelve  years  since  Bet  and  I 

First  started  on  the  road, 
And  never  once,  in  all  that  time, 

I've  touched  a  whip  or  goad; 
She  is  the  kindest,  quickest  thing 

That  ever  bore  a  load. 


Always  the  same  old  gentle  girl, 

Though  little  hay  she'd  get 
Sometimes,  when  biz  was  very  bad, 

And  roads  were  rough,  and  yet — 
She  was  the  gentlest  of  we  three, 

Me,  Jimmie,  and  old  Bet. 

Jim  was  my  little  one,  you  see, 
The  brightest,  sweetest  boy, 

That  ever  came  from  heaven  on  earth 
To  be  a  father's  joy. 

His  mother  died  when  he  was  born, 
And  Bet,  awhile,  was  coy, 
49 


And  jealous,  too,  until  at  length 
She  somehow  seemed  to  find 

That  Jimmie  had  no  mother  left, 
And  so  she  changed  her  mind, 

And  'dopted  him  herself,  and  proved 
As  any  mother  kind. 

We  brought  him  up  by  hand,  us  two, — 
You  needn't  smile,  'tis  true : 

There's  not  a  nurse  in  all  the  land 
That  could  old  Bet  outdo; 

She'd  make  a  cradle  of  her  trunk, 
And  shake  his  rattle,  too. 


And  when  the  nights  were  cold  and  sharp, 

The  rain  came  driving  in, 
Beneath  her  big  warm  side  he'd  lay 

And  laugh  at  blankets  thin. 
No  fear  that  Bet  would  doze  away 

And  crush  the  baby  in. 

Ah !  well,  one  day  (the  rich  don't  know 

What  poor  folks  have  to  do) 
I  was  training  Jimmie  for  the  ring, 

When,  as  he  vaulted  through 
A  paper  hoop,  he  missed  and  fell, 

All  white,  and  senseless  too. 
50 


His  spine  was  hurt,  and. two  long  years 
We  nursed  my  crippled  child. 

Yet  even  when  he  suffered  mo»t 
He  patient  was  and  mild; 

A  hundred  times  he  dried  my  tears 
And  coaxed  me  till  I  smiled. 


We  never  left  him,  Bet  and  I, 

But  steady  day  by  day 
She'd  softly  swing  him  off  to  sleep, 

Or  fan  his  pain  away, 
And  every  cake  or  nut  she'd  get 

On  Jimmie's  bed  she'd  lay. 

But  that's  not  all, — one  stormy  night, 
Just  as  we  pitched  the  tent, 

The  lightning  struck  a  tiger's  cage, 
And  out  the  mad  beast  went. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  the  scream 
For  help,  that  Jimmie  sent. 

We  heard  the  tiger  snarl  just  where 

The  tiny  bed  did  lie, 
The  keepers  jerked  their  pistols  out 

And  rushed  toward  the  cry. 
Quick  as  we  were,  old  Bet  was  first: 

She  flung  the  baby  high ! 
51 


And  as  upon  her  great  black  head 
He  clung,  all  white  and  flat, 

With  lifted  trunk  and  levelled  tusks 
Old  Betsey  faced  the  cat! 

I  gave  her  double  hay  that  night, — 
Who  wouldn't  after  that? 


At  last  Jim  died,  and  when  in  peace 

The  little  angel  lay, 
The  very  clowns  had  tears  to  shed, 

And  one  knelt  down  to  pray. 
Although  our  boss  was  rough  and  hard, 

We  didn't  show  that  day. 

And  as  around  the  coffin  small 

Gathered  our  solemn  band, 
Old  Betsey  took  it  up  herself 

Ere  we  could  stretch  a  hand, 
And  when  we  left  the  grave  looked  back, 

And  seemed  to  understand. 


Then  only  we  were  left.     That  seemed 

But  closer  still  to  tether 
Old  Bet  and  me,  and  sadly  since, 

In  fair  or  stormy  weather, 
Upon  the  road  or  in  the  ring, 

We've  mourned  our  dead  together. 
52 


They  say  beasts  have  no  souls, — no  heaven 

When  they  are  dead, — I  know 
If  there's  a  place  where  faithful  love 

Has  got  the  smallest  show, 
They'll  let  Bet  in,  or  else  it's  not 

The  place  I  want  to  go. 

I  haven't  many  years  to  live, 

And  Betsey's  growing  old; 
They  might  have  let  us  rough  it  through — ' 

Just  then  his  face  grew  cold, — 
For  as  he  spake  the  hammer  fell, 

And  poor  old  Bet  was  sold. 


53 


THE  WHARF  RAT 

You  see,  gents,  my  pal,  Tim  an'  me, 

Was  a-takin'  a  quiet  swim, 
When  a  cop  come  a-sneakin'  along  the  warf, 

An'  he  nabs  poor  little  Tim. 

You  bet  it  was  rough  on  us  partners,  that 
For  while  Tim  in  the  cooler  stayed, 

His  corner'd  be  tuk  by  s'mother  boy 
As  ud  cabbage  his  reg'lar  trade. 

So  Tim  went  a-snivelin'  up  the  street, 

With  me  snivelin'  on  behind, 
Wen  a  big  man  outer  er  resterrink  come 

As  I  guess  'ud  been  drinkin'  wine, 

An'  he  sez,  "Whot's  this  here  criminal  done?" 

So  the  cop  sez,  "Yer  see  it's  agin 
Ther  law  fur  to  swim  on  ther  city  front, 

So  I'm  runnin  this  Wharf  Rat  in." 

An'  the  big  man  laughs  as  he  looks  at  Tim, 
An'  he  sez,  "How  much  is  there  fine?" 

Five  dollars !    They  charge  the  same  for  a  bath 
They  does  fur  a  bottle  er  wine. 
54 


"Wall,  I  guess  I'll  pay  it,"  an'  then  he  winks 
At  me  and  ther  cop  kinder  queer, 

"But  mind  yer,  Rat,  this  is  ony  a  loan — 
You  must  pay  it  back  in — a  year." 

He  laughs  again  when  Tim  braced  up, 
An,  he  looks  him  square  in  the  eye, 

An'  sez  with  fist  a-clinched  this  way — 
"Ef  I  don't  sir,  I  hope  ter  die." 

Well,  most  of  a  year  had  gone,  one  day 
Me  and  Tim  was  a-stealin'  a  dip 

By  the  ferry  wharf,  when  the  boat  kem  in 
'An  run  too  hard  'gin  ther  slip; 

An'  a  little  gal,  that  a  big  man  held 

A  settin'  upon  the  rail, 
Wos  knocked  clean  over  ther  steamer's  side 

In  the  shake  uv  a  sheepses  tail. 

We  seen  'twere  some  rich  man  an'  knowed 

Ther  babby  belonged  to  him ; 
So  Tim  dived  arter  it  like  a  duck — 

Fur  I  tell  yer  he  saveyed  ter  swim. 

Ther  passengers  yelled,  ther  bells  they  banged, 
Till  ther  boat  backed  off  from  there; 

Then  we  see'd  my  pal  catched  onter  a  pile 
A-grippin'  the  gal's  long  hair. 
55 


So  they  hauled  'em  both  out  onter  ther  deck, 
The  gal, — she  was  safe  and  sound, — : 

But  Tim  had  been  hit  by  the  iron  wheel — 
His  side  wos  jest  one  big  wound. 

The  daddy,  he  kissed  his  kid,  then  kneeled 
Where  Tim  lay  so  white  an'sick, 

"God  bless  yer,"  he  says,  "my  little  man — 
Some  one  fetch  a  doctor,  quick !" 

"No  use,"  sez  Tim,  "I'm  goin,'  Sir, 

I  can't  pay  yer  now,  yer  see," 
An'  he  takes  from  his  neck  a  little  bag — 

"I'm  four-bits  short,"  says  he. 

"Don't  yer  savey  ther  boy  that  wos  tooked  up, 
Wot  yer  lent  ther  money  that  day? 

I'd  most  got  it  all  made  up,  but  now — 
But  now,  I  never  kin  pay." 

"Don't  talk  uv  that,"  sez  the  father  chap, 

Big  tears  a-runnin'  free; 
"You've  saved  my  babby's  life,  an'  she's 

Wuth  all  ther  world  ter  me!" 

"Is  she  wuth  four  bits?"  sez  Tim,  so  weak; 

"Oh !  yes,"  sez  ther  man — "Give  him  air !" 
"Then,"  sez  Tim,  just  like  he  wos  goin'  ter  sleep, 

"Then,  Mister,  you  an'     ne's  square." 
56 


An'  that  wos  ther  last  work  Timmy  sez, 

An'  all  them  big  men  tall, 
Tuk  off  their  hats  as  my  pal  let  go, 

Yes,  they  did — plug  hats  an'  all! 

An'  a  gospel  sharp  as  was  in  ther  crowd, 

He  kneeled  right  down  by  Tim, 
An*  he  told  uv  a  Bible  feller  as  'lowed 

Dead  kids  ter  cum  ter  him. 

I  tell  yer  it's  hard  ter  lose  ther  pal 
Ye've  fit  f er,  starved  with,  an'  love ; 

But  I'm  bettin'  as  them  as  is  square  down  here 
Is  square  up  there  above !" 


JIMMIE 

His  Honor  sat  in  civic  state 
When  soft  the  massive  door 

Opened  a  timid  inch,  and  there 
Beneath  its  knob,  he  saw, 

A  tiny  urchin's  smudgy  face 
That  tears  had  veined  o'er. 

"Please  sir,  I've  come  about  my  goat 
The're  got  him  in  the  pound." 

"Get  out,  you  little  rascal,  you !" 
The  City  said,  and  frowned. 

A  big  tear  from  the  grimy  nose 
Fell  piteous  on  the  ground. 

An  hour  ticked  by, — the  civic  gaze 

Drawn  by  a  pigmy  sigh, 
Saw  still,  behind  the  gaping  door, 

A  small  but  steadfast  eye, 
Strained  like  a  shipwrecked  sailor's  to 

Some  distant  sail  descry. 

"Please  sir,  he's  such  a  little  goat, 
He  slipped  our  palings  through, 

He  never  butts  the  girls  and  boys, 
'Deed  sir,  he  never  do." 

And  then,  with  sudden  guile,  he  said, 
"His  name  is  Jimmie  too." 
58 


Now  Jim  Rolf  plays  a  double  part, 
Of  all  known  Mayors,  'tis  said, 

He  carries  round  the  softest  heart 
Beneath  the  hardest  head. 

He  paused,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  soon, 
The  goat's  reprieve  was  read. 

"Did  you  put  4J*mrn'e'  m?     Because 

As  by  the  pound  I  came 
1  seed  they  had  some  other  goats, 

And  put  "This  goat  is  lame." 
The  Mayor's  eye  twinkled,  solemnly 

He  wrote  the  prisoner's  name. 

A  wild  whoop  from  the  corridor 

Gave  every  ear  a  twinge, 
But  in  a  moment  once  again 

The  door  creaked  on  its  hinge. 

A  brown  reluctant  paw  was  seen,— 
A  sleeve  with  ragged  fringe. 

"Here,  sir,  take  this — fur  keeps"  he  said 
Half   smiling,  half    forlorn, 

A  battered  base-ball  dropped  and  rolled 

The  City's  carpet  on. 
The  door  shut  with  a  hasty  snap 

The  giver  brave  was  gone. 


59 


GUILTY 

"Well,  Officer  451" 

Said  the  Chairman  of  the  Board, 
"You're  charged  with  duty  unfulfilled. 

As  this  does  not  accord 
With  your  good  record  up  to  date, 

We'll  hear  what  you've  to  say 
In  your  defense  before  we  take 

Your  credit  marks  away." 

"It's  because  of  this  new  ordinance" 

The  stalwart  bluecoat  said, 
"The  one  against  the  little  tots 

That  try  to  earn  their  bread; 
I  mean  the  kids  with  flowers  to  sell 

That  on  the  corners  stand, 
You've  noticed  them,  your  Honor, 

A  half -starved  little  band? 

Poor  waifs  from  wretched  homes 

That  would  a  miser's  heart  make  sore, 
With  only  their  small  hands  to  keep 

Starvation  from  the  door! 
So  when  the  word  to  'move  'em  on' 

And  run  them  in  to  fine 
In  case  they  didn't  quit  the  trade 

Was  passed  along  the  line. 
60 


We  felt — I  know  I  did  for  one — no 

Stomach  for  the  job; 
Twas  too  much  like  the  skulking  wolf 

Who  tries  the  fold  to  rob; 
And  as  for  the  big  dealers,  whose  greed 

Has  caused  it  all 
I've  nabbed  a  score  of  sneak  thieves, 

But  none  with  souls  so  small ! 


Well.  I  tried  to  keep  the  corners  clear, 

Or  tried  to  think  I  did, 
Till  late  one  night  I  found  a  child 

That  in  a  door  was  hid, 
He  wouldn't  move — two  bunches  more 

Of  flowers  he'd  yet  unsold 
And  so  I  had  to  run  him  in, 

A  mere  tot  blue  with  cold! 


I  took  him  in  my  arms  where  soon 

The  poor  mite  fell  asleep, 
But  e'er  he  did  he  sobbing  put 

Within  my  hands  to  keep 
His  little  store  of  nickels,  'Please 

Officer,'  said  he, 
'When  I'm  in  jail  take  mama  this, 

She's  sick  and  wants  her  tea.' 
61 


I  don't  know  ho\v  it  happened, 

Gents,  but,  somehow  I  turned  around 
And  packed  that  little  ragged 

Boy  half  way  across  the  town. 
I  put  him  in  his  mother's  arms, 

i  did,  and  so  would  you, 
And  bought  to  swell  his  little  stake 

Those  last  two  bunches,  too. 

You  say  my  record  has  been  good, 

And — well  it's  my  belief 
I'm  pretty  fair  at  tackling  toughs, 

Or  footpads  or  a  thief. 
But  if  I've  got  to  keep  my  job 

By  making  cruel  war 
On  kids — then  call  it  'Guilty'  sirs, 

And  take  away  my  star." 


62 


THE  DANDY  FIFTH 

Twas  the  time  of  the  workingmen's  great  strike, 

When  all  the  land  stood  still 
At  the  sudden  roar  from  the  hungry  mouths 

That  labor  could  not  fill; 
When  the  thunder  of  the  railroad  ceased, 
.    And  startled  towns  could  spy 
A  hundred  blazing  factories 

Painting  each  midnight  sky. 


Through  Philadelphia's  surging  streets 

Marched  the  brown  ranks  of  toil, 
The  grimy  legions  of  the  shops, 

The  tillers  of  the  soil. 
White-faced  militia-men  looked  on, 

While  women  shrank  with  dread; 
Twas  muscle  against  money  then, — 

Twas  riches  against  bread. 


Once,  as  the  mighty  mob  tramped  on, 
A  carriage  stopped  the  way, 
63 


Upon  the  silken  seat  of  which 

A  young  patrician  lay, 
And  as,  with  haughty  glance,  he  swept 

Along  the  jeering  crowd, 
A  white-haired  blacksmith  in  the  ranks 

Took  off  his  cap  and  bowed. 


That  night  the  Labor  League  was  met, 

And  soon  the  chairman  said ; 
"There  hides  a  Judas  in  our  midst, 

One  man  who  bows  his  head, 
Who  bends  the  coward's  servile  knee 

When  capital  rolls  by," 
"Down  with  him !     Kill  the  traitor  cur !" 

Rang  out  the  savage  cry. 


Up  rose  the  blacksmith,  then,  and  held 

Erect  his  head  of  gray; 
"I  am  no  traitor,  though  I  bowed 

To  a  rich  man's  son  to-day; 
And  though  you  kill  me  as  I  stand — 

As  like  you  mean  to  do- 
I  want  to  tell  you  a  story  short, 

And   I  ask  you'll  hear  me  through. 
64 


"I  was  one  of  those  who  enlisted  first, 

The  Old  Flag  to  defend, 
With  Pope  and  Halleck,  with  'Mac'  and  Grant, 

I  followed  to  the  end; 
And  'twas  somewhere  down  on  the  Rapidan, 

When  the  Union  cause  looked  drear, 
That  a  regiment  of  rich  young  bloods 

Came  down  to  us  from  here. 


"Their  uniforms  were  by  tailors  cut; 

They  'd  hampers  of  good  wine ; 
And  every  squad  had  a  servant,  too, 

To  keep  their  boots  in  shine; 
They'd  naught  to  say  to  us  dusty  Vets,' 

And  through  the  whole  brigade, 
We  called  them  the  kid-gloved  Dandy  Fifth, 

When  we  passed  them  on  parade. 


8 


"Well,  they  were  sent  to  hold  a  fort 

The  Rebs  tried  hard  to  take, 
Twas  the  key  of  all  our  line,  which  naught 

While  it  held  out  could  break, 
65 


But  a  fearful  fight  we  lost  just  then — 
The  reserve  came  up  too  late ; 

And  on  that  fort,  and  the  Dandy  Fifth, 
Hung  the  whole  division's  fate. 


"Three  times  we  tried  to  take  them  aid, 

And  each  time  back  we  fell, 
Though  once  we  could  hear  the  fort's  far  guns 

Boom  like  a  funeral  knell; 
Till  at  length  Joe  Hooker's  corps  came  up, 

And  then  straight  through  we  broke; 
How  we  cheered  as  we  saw  those  dandy  coats 

Still  back  of  the  drifting  smoke ! 


10 


"With  the  bands  all  front  and  our  colors  spread 

We  swarmed  up  the  parapet, 
But  the  sight  that  silenced  our  welcome  shout 

I  shall  never  in  life  forget. 
Four  days  before  had  their  water  gone — 

They  had  dreaded  that  the  most, — 
The  next  their  last  scant  ration  went, 

And  each  man  looked  a  ghost — 
66 


11 


As  he  stood  gaunt-eyed  behind  his  gun, 

Like  a  crippled  stag  at  bay, 
And  watched  starvation — though  not  defeat — 

Draw  nearer  every  day. 
Of  all  the  Fifth,  not  forescore  men 

Could  in  their  places  stand, 
And  their  white  lips  told  a  fearful  tale, 

As  we  grasped  each  bloodless  hand. 


12 


"The  rest  in  the  stupor  of  famine  lay. 

Save  here  and  there  a  few 
In  death  sat  rigid  against  the  guns, 

Grim  sentinels  in  blue; 
And  their  Colonel,  he  could  not  speak  or  stir, 

But  we  saw  his  proud  eye  thrill 
As  he  simply  glanced  to  the  shot-scarred  staff 

Where  the  old  flag  floated  still! 


13 


"Now,  I  hate  the  tyrants  who  grind  us  down, 
White  the  wolf  snarls  at  our  door, 

And  the  men  who've  risen  from  us —  to  laugh 
At  the  misery  of  the  poor; 
67 


But  I  tell  you,  mates,  while  this  weak  old  hand 

I  have  left  the  strength  to  lift, 
It  will  touch  my  cap  to  the  proudest  swell 

Who  fought  in  the  Dandy  Fifth?" 


68 


PATRIOTIC 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  BEAR 

The  great  guns  thunder  from  the  forts, 

And  echo  from  the  bay, 
And  dense  the  joy-mad  crowds  that  line 

The  victor's  rose-strewn  way. 
All  flags  that  marched  with  Freedom's  hosts 

Float  o'er  the  gallant  sight, 
While  overhead  our  eagles  buzz — 

Those  hornets  of  the  fight. 

File  upon  file — rank  upon  rank, 

They  come — our  kith  and  kin, 
But  not  the  fresh-faced  youths  we  sent 

The  half  lost  cause  to  win, 
Not  those  the  stern-browed  warriors 

We  greet  with  awe  today, 
For  these  are  bronzed  veterans 

Of  camp— of  trench — and  fray. 

But  ah!  amid  the  trumpets'  blare, 

The  music  and  the  cheers, 
Are  some  of  us  that  gaze  whose  eyes 

Are  dim  with  many  tears. 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  little  ones 

Who  prayed  and  hoped  in  vain, 
Who  watch  the  shrunken  files  for  those 

That  ne'er  will  come  again. 
71 


For  still  with  mem'ry  eyes  they  see — 

It  seems  but  yesterday — 
Some  brave,  upstanding,  smiling  lad 

That  blithely  marched  away. 
Who  now  within  the  dwindled  ranks 

A  spectral  form  goes  by, 
Grim  Death  comes  double  when  it  wills 

That  hope  and  love  shall  die. 

And  see!  behind  the  rearmost  ranks 

Another  troop  goes  past, 
A  still  more  ghostly  company, 

"MISSING"  its  epitaph. 
Those  filling  unregarded  graves 

"Just  somewhere  "over  there," 
Unnamed,  unmarked  by  comrades'  hands, 

Or  even  alien  care. 

Rest  well  beneath  the  south  wind's  breath, 

Nor  miss  brief  glory's  call, 
Dear  stragglers  from  the  camp  of  death, 

We  mourn  ye  most  of  all, 
At  least  we  know  where  o'er  thy  sleep 

The  tears  of  April  flow, 
Each  Spring  Memorial  Day  will  keep, 

And  bid  the  daisies  grow. 


72 


SARGINT  BURKE 

Sargint  Burke  is  back  again— 

He's  down  at  Doolan's  place, 
Wid  a  midel  an  his  uniform — 

A  scar  anent  his  face 
He's  huggin'  ivery  gurl  he  mates 

And  ye's  may  put  it  down 
There's  goin'  ter  be  ther  divil's  toime 

Now  Sargint  Burke's  in  town. 

It's  singin'  "Over  There"  he  is 

An'  poundin'  an  ther  bar, 
An'  ivery  mon  that  drinks  wid  him 

Must  have  a  foine  seegar 
An'  Widdy  Kelly's  little  Kate 

That's  comin'  there  for  beer 
Can't  pay  wan  cint  ther  bucket-full 

Ther  whoilst  the  Sargint's  here. 

He  makes  a  trinch  av  Doolan's  bar 

And  then  lapes  o'er  the  top 
To  show  the  byes  the  baynit  worruk 

That  made  ther  Fritzeys  stop. 
Ther  wimmin  do  be  pakin'  in 

The  windys  from  ther  strate 
To  hear  him  do  ther  Marshall  Hayes, 

A  Frinch  song  that  sounds  great. 
73 


Ther  round  house  hands  kape  droppin'  in 

An'  niver  going  back 
An'  there's  two  freights  upon  the  switch 

Ther  wan  on  ayther  track, 
Ther  Soopertindint  av  ther  yard 

Is  mad  enough  ter  swear, 
But  darsent  say  a  wurrud — but,  grins 

The  whoilst  ther  Sargint's  there. 

Ah,  Sargint,  Sargint,  Sargint  Burke, 

Ye  devil  wid  yer  ways, 
Ye're  rubbin  all  ther  sorry  off 

These  could  and  peaceful  days, 
Och  hone!  but  it's  mesilf  widall 

There  cares  Oi  have  ter  drown 
Must  lave  me  pick  an'  rest  a  bit 

Since  Sargint  Burke's  in  town. 


74 


THE  MARINES 

At  the  ball  given  at  Manchester,  England,  to 
the  officers  and  non-commissioned  officers  of  the 
U.  S.  Marines,  the  welcoming  address  by  Field 
Marshal  Haig  was  followed  by  these  lines  re 
cited  by  Rudyard  Kipling.  At  least  this  is  what 
our  American  Author  thinks  might  most  ap 
propriately  have  happened : 

The  day  was  far  spent  like  our  men.  We  had  sent 
For  support  but  had  waited  in  vain. 

The  gray  line  of  fire  rolled  higher  and  nigher, 
Then  wavered  and  ebbed  back  again. 

But  we  knew  if  the  night  should  shut  down  on 

the  fight 

We  should  lose  every  trench — every  pit, 
So  we  lost  heart  at  last  when  our  Colonel  went 

past 
On  a  stretcher,  white  faced  and  hard  hit. 

Just  then  from  the  rear  came  a  weird  yapping 

cheer 

High  over  the  rapid  fires'  hum, 
And  up  went  OUR  shout  as  our  Major  shrieked 

out, 

"Sit  tight,  lads — the  Yankees  have  come!" 
75 


And  they  came  as  at  Dover  the  breakers  boil 

over 

The  cliffs,  and  they  smothered  the  Hun. 
Then — we  dropped  asleep — kneeling — and  stand 
ing — all  feeling 
The  job  out  in  front  was  well  done. 

They   are   round   us   tonight   in   the   ballroom's 

bright  light 

'Mid  the  waltzes'  soft  surges  and  foam, 
Though  the  hands  are  now  hid  in  immaculate  kid 

That  once  drove  the  bayonet  home. 

But  we  know  'till  are  furled  the  war  flags  of  the 

world 

What  the  cult  of  blood-brotherhood  means — 
That  their  Liberty's  light  will  e'er  flash  through 

the  night 
"Sit  tight — till  I  send  my  Marines!" 


76 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

At  these  green  billows  on  whose  crest 

Tosses  the  clover's  spray 
Our  children  wondered  as  we  drest 

With  flowers  our  solemn  way. 

And  still  they  wonder  as  we  turn 
With  tear  wet  eyes  that  are 

Fixed  on  the  trail  that  leads  beyond 
The  far  horizon's  bar. 

The  long,  long  trail  our  yearning  takes 
O'er  leagues  of  land  and  sea 

To  that  vast  camp  of  death,  of  which 
These  but  the  stragglers  be. 

To  where,  perchance,  with  grateful  love 

Our  rescued  allies  stand 
Where  we  would  be  this  day  of  days 

In  dreary  "No  Man's  Land." 

Where  now  at  last  all  timidly 
The  long-missed  grasses  creep 

With  Nature's  loving  care  to  soothe 
Our  dear  ones  where  they  sleep. 
77 


We  know  not  of  the  gallant  deed, 
Linked  with  each  hero's  name, 

Who  gave  his  life  for  you  and  me 
Before  the  cannon's  flame. 

Of  him  who  'neath  the  tiny  cross 
That  marks  each  hasty  mound 

Best  won  the  dear  bought  accolade, 
The  soldier's  cross  and  crown. 

Of  him  who  on  some  trench's  edge 

First  reddened  by  his  blood, 
With  shattered  blade  above  his  head 

Cheered  on  the  coming  flood. 

Of  him  who  when  Death's  hail  had  passed 

And  'Vic'ry"  rent  the  sky 
Gasped  a  glad  echo  to  the  shout 

And  with  it  sank  to  die. 

But,  as  the  storm-drowned  lilies'  breath 

Still  floats  above  the  wave, 
The  incense  of  their  sacrifice 

Lingers  above  each  grave. 

Enough  to  know  all  freemen  join 
To  mark  this  God-sent  May — 

That  centuries  to  come  will  keep 
ONE  great  Memorial  Day. 
78 


That  all  there  is  of  human  hope 
Springs  from  each  hallowed  spot, 

Where  rest  our  dead  'neath  immortelles 
That  Time  shall  wither  not. 


79 


THE  FLAG  OF  OUR  FLEET 

Let  the  great  guns  thunder !  Let  the  drums  beat ! 
Swelling  the  roar  of  the  turbulent  street. 
For  we  honor  the  proudest  banner  to-day 
That  floats  o'er  a  nation's  holiday. 
The  sign  of  a  century's  sure  increase, 
Of  the  patriot's  pride,  of  his  children's  peace. 
On  the  greenest  branch  of  humanity's  tree, 
The  fiull-blown  flower  of  liberty! 

Symbol  of  deeds  by  the  martyrs  done, 

In  the  cause  oft  lost,  yet  forever  won. 

By  valley  and  mountain,  by  city  and  sea, 

The  ideal  banner  of  liberty! 

Thy  germ  was  sown  in  the  age's  dawn, 
E'er  Nero  fell  or  the  Christ  was  born. 
Thy  infant  arm  stabbed  the  Caesar  down, 
And  plucked  from  its  power  the  Roman  crown. 
Divorced  from  its  scabbard  the  Saxon  sword, 
And  led  to  the  desert  the  Tartar  horde; 
And  the  ghosts  of  all  flags  that  strove  to  free 
Mankind  float  from  thy  staff  with  thee. 
Thou  phantom  dream  of  the  hoary  past, 
Mankind's  first — only  hope — and  last. 
The  sign  of  the  world's  great  day  to  be, 
Thou  blood-bought  banner  of  liberty! 
80 


Thrice  did  the  Gauls'  long  struggle  fail, 
'Mid  ravaged  cities  and  woman's  wail; 
Thrice  was  the  desperate  cause  betrayed 
At  the  back  of  the  blood-wet  barricade. 
Yet  ever  the  parting  word  went  round 
As  the  last  red  standard  was  trampled  down, 
"Courage,  companions !    It  yet  shall  be, 
Our  brothers  have  conquered,  so  must  we!" 
To-day  the  zephyr  that  fondles  thee 
Kisses  thy  sister  across  the  sea. 
Side  by  side  on  its  kingless  shore 
Thy  glad  folds  twine  with  the  tricolor. 

Yhy  stars  were  the  storm-set  beacon  light 
That  shone  through  the  gloom  of  Italia's  night; 
\Vhen  the  bombs  fell  fast  in  Palermo  town 
And  Bomba's  scythe  cut  "the  Legion"  down. 
But  ever  as  hope  from  the  carnage  fled 
Garibaldi  lifted  his  lion  head — 
"Faint  not,  my  children — over  the  sea 
Still  floats  the  bright  omen  of  liberty!" 

And  behold,  by  the  mother  of  art  and  song, 
The  angel  of  peace  hath  nestled  long, 
And  Caprera's  banner  flutters  like  thee, 
The  sign  of  its  people's  unity. 

But  not  from  the  lightnings  of  lurid  wars 
Are  the  brightest  rays  of  thy  fadeless  stars. 
SI 


Thy  chiefest  glory  lives  not  in  the  flood 
That  stripes  thy  bosom  with  patriot  blood — 
But  in  this — of  all  flags  by  Victory's  sun 
Illumined  since  thy  infant  cause  was  won, 
Thou — thou  hath  been  chosen  alone  to  be 
The  world's  great  evangel  of  liberty! 

To-day  as  thou  marcheth  across  the  seas 
Thy  spirit  rides  on  each  landward  breeze. 
And  many  an  alien  heart  shall  beat 
At  the  message  left  by  the  free  land's  fleet. 

For  here,  in  Columbia's  land  of  grace, 
Is  thy  steadfast  home,  and  thy  altar  place. 
Here  shall  the  flame  of  the  world's  desire 
As  the  years  roll  on  blaze  high — and  higher, 
Till  a  score  of  ransomed  Cubas  raise 
Their  chain-freed  hands  in  a  hymn  of  praise, 
And  a  score  of  Deweys  yet  to  come 
Strike  the  belching  guns  of  each  despot  dumb. 
Thou  deathless  pledge  of  fraternal  love, 
Thou  herald  of  hope  from  Heaven  above, 
For  each  new  dawn  paints  thy  glories  there, 
To  say  to  the  serf  in  his  shackles  "DARE !" 

In  the  jungle  haunt,  in  the  mountain  gorge, 
Thy  colors  glow  in  the  midnight  forge. 
Where  Poland  weldeth  anew  her  steel ; 
Where    the    Afric    writhes    'neath    the    alien's 
heel ; 

82 


\Yhere  the  Sunburst  signals  its  exiles  far; 

Where  the  earthquake  quivers  beneath  the  Czar ; 

Alhvheres  the  crushed  slave  lifts  his  eye 

To  thy  rainbow  hues  in  the  Western  sky, 

And  ne'er  shall  that  beacon  blaze  grow  dim, 
Till  the  round  world  echoes  thy  natal  hymn ; 
For  thy  staff  is  set  in  the  mighty  hand 
That  shelters  the  free  hearts'  Fatherland! 


83 


"CARRY  ON" 

There's  a  slogan  and  a  battle  cry 

That  rings  the  world  today, 
That  shall  live  in  song  and  legend 

When  all  we  have  passed  away. 
It  was  born  in  first  line  trenches, 

Where  they  lead  the  hopes  forlorn — 
A  bugle  call  to  freemen  all 

Forever,  "Carry  On !" 

Midway  in  that  fierce  charge  he  fell 

With  shattered  arm  and  side. 
But  when  the  stretcher  bearers  came, 

"Don't  mind  ME,  lads !"  he  cried ; 
"There's  greater  need  for  you  ahead, 

MY  scratch  is  easy  borne. 
Forward,  R.  C. ;  they's  calling  ye; 

Don't  linger,  "Carry  On!" 

And  where  the  sons  of  Lafayette 

Fight — as  HE  fought — again 
And  reap  the  Teutons'  sullen  ranks 

As  sickle  cuts  ripe  grain, 
High  o'er  the  hell  of  bomb  and  shell 

From  trenches  swept  and  torn, 
The  same  great  slogan  echoes  back, 

"Companions,  Carry  On !" 
84 


The  Austrians  know  that  fateful  cry 

The  charging  Cossack  shrieks, 
Where  myriad  littered  Russian  bear 

Snarls  'mid  his  snowclad  peaks. 
The  cowed  Turk  hears  it  as  he  slinks 

Back  to  his  golden  Horn; 
And  Garabaldi's  spirit  pleads, 

"Dear  comrades,  Carry  On!" 

From  far  Australia's  boundless  range, 

From  Cuba's  fields  of  cane, 
From  India's  jungles.    From  the  treks 

O'er  Afric's  burning  plain, 
From  where  Alberta's  sowers  leave 

Unreaped  their  seas  of  corn, 
The  air-borne  message  steadfast  ticks, 

"We  are  coming!    Carry  On!" 

And  now — lo!  every  breeze  that  blows 

O'er  this  red  world  today 
Meets  where  our  mighty  symbol  stands 

Above  our  eastmost  bay, 
Her  great  torch  heralding  the  hour 

Of  Freedom's  world  wide  dawn. 
Ah,  how  OUR  hearts  thrill  as  SHE  cries, 

"My  children,  Carry  On!" 


85 


HERE! 

"Here's  Decoration  day  again," 

The   feeble  vet'ran  said. 
"And  now  by  Grant  and  Sheridan 

Is  old  Tecumseh  laid. 
They've  moved  headquarters  up  above, 

And  for  the  grand  review 
They're  calling  all  the  furloughs  in, 

Time  /  reported,  too. 

"This  new  Grand  Army  seems  to  me 

All  politics  and  fuss. 
It  may  be  some  of  those  I  see 

Once  marched  along  with  us. 
Perhaps  there's  some  that  followed  Grant, 

Or  Sherman  to  the  sea, 
But  most  of  'em  as  wears  the  badge 

Are  strangers  unto  me. 

"As  long  as  one  real  Gen'ral  lived 

To  show  us  vets  the  way 
Things  kinder  seems  familiar-like, 

And  me  content  to  stay. 
But  now  I'll  leave  the  new  recruits 

To  shoulder  arms  and  tramp; 
I'm  longing  for  the  next  relief 

That  takes  me  back  to  camp. 
86 


"The  chaplains  say  we'll  meet  beyond 

But  flags  of  truce  and  love, 
Yet  still  I  feel  that  when  I  pass 

The  picket  posts  above 
I'll  find  somewhere  along  the  line 

The  place  where  I  belong, 
And  'Hallelujah !'  raise  again — 

I  mean  Tecumseh's  song. 

"I  think  I  see  the  boys  up  there, 

And  hear  their  wild  'hurrah !' 
When  'tother  day  Tecumseh  came 

To  join  them  as  of  yore. 
Again  I  see  him  raise  his  hand 

To  still  the  joyful  din, 
And  say,  'Now,  let  us  call  the  roll ; 

Are  all  the  stragglers  in?' 

"I'm  going  in  for  one."    And  then 

The  gray  old  head  sank  low; 
The  weak  limbs  straightened  bravely  out, 

The  hand  was  lifted — so. 
And  as  the  startled  watchers  bent 

Above  his  couch  in  fear, 
And  called  his  name,  his  dying  lips 

Whispered  in  answer,  "Here!" 


87 


MISCELLANEOUS 


JUNE 

June's  glorious  sun  unclouded  shines 
And  not  a  bud  unopened  lingers, 

The  roses  laugh,  and  mid  their  vines 
The  purple  petaled  eglantines 

Tangle  their  fragrant  fingers. 

The  epauletted  blackbird  sings 

His  love  song  in  the  velvet  meadows; 

The  oriole  on  flaming  wings 

Flits  through  the  orchard  openings 

And  slides  into  the  shadows. 

Afar  the  lake,  a  silver  sheet 

Girdled  by  hills  of  green,  lies  sleeping; 
The  brooks  that  in  its  bosom  meet, 

We  see  not,  but  their  foam-shod  feet 
We  hear  the  ledges  leaping. 

Along  the  fir-fringed  mountain  peaks 
The  vagrant  vapors  drift  and  double. 

The  doubting  dove  its  lover  seeks. 
Faint  heard,  the  distant  surf  bespeaks 

The  city's  toil  and  trouble. 
91 


Leave  your  dull  haunts,  ye  human  moles, 
Blindly  for  sordid  treasures  mining. 

By  verdant  paths  seek  brighter  goals 
And  weave  around  your  jaded  souls 

The  garlands  June  is  twining. 


92 


THE  KNIGHTS  OF  GUTENBERG 

"The  ten-inch  is  good,  but  in  spite  of  change 
The  Gutenberg  gun  has  the  longest  range" 

HOLMES. 

In  the  days  when  the  world  sat  in  darkness, 

When  might  was  the  law  of  the  earth, 
When  lil>erty  seemed  but  a  phantom 

To  all  but  the  chosen  of  birth ; 
When  the  lash  was  the  answer  to  manhood, 

When  the  serf  was  the  beast  of  the  field, 
When  the  cry  of  the  women  and  children 

Was  drowned  by  the  rattle  of  steel. 

When  the  dungeon,  the  rack,  and  the  torture. 

Through  despot  and  priest  worked  their  will. 
\Vhen  famine  took  toll  of  the  many 

That  the  masters  might  feast  to  their  fill. 
\Vhen  over  all  lands  hung  the  shadow 

Of  cruelty,  wrong  and  despair. 
When  the  eyes  that  were  lifted  to  heaven 

Found  no  star  of  hope  shining  there. 

There  arose,  ah!  we  all  know  the  story, 

It  can  thrill  us  today  as  of  yore. 
And  rode  to  a  ne'er  fading  glory 

The  Knights  of  humanity's  war. 
93 


They  were  only  a  handful — Knight  Errants 
But  their  souls  and  their  swords  were  alight 

With  the  just  dawing  hope  of  the  helpless 
The  first  morning  rays  of  the  light. 

And  with  helmet  and  breastplate  and  buckler, 

And  lances  forever  in  rest, 
Wherever  was  wrong  or  oppression, 

\Vherever  was   want   or   distress, 
Wherever  the  serf  cried  for  mercy 

Or  pleaded  a  woman  for  aid, 
There  flashed  in  the  forefront  of  battle 

The  Knight  Errants'  heaven-sped  blade. 

Full  oft  they  were  trampled  and  beaten, 

Full  oft  they  went  down  in  the  fray, 
But  the  banner  of  hope  still  was  lifted 

Its  bearers  still  pressed  on  their  way. 
No  matter  how  dread  was  the  slaughter 

Each  gap  was  filled  up  by  a  sword 
Ne'er  to  rest  in  the  Crusade  of  Heaven 

The  true  Holy  Quest  of  the  Lord. 


Till  at  length — Oh !  that  great  day  of  mercy 
When  lo!  at  the  high  God's  command, 

His  Arch-angel  passed  down  from  Heaven 
The  weapon  that  naught  might  withstand. 
94 


And  that  day  was  born  the  great  order 
The  Gutenberg  Knights  of  the  Press, 

Whose  far  ranging  missiles  forever 
Bade  tyrants  no  longer  oppress. 

And  soon,  as  the  great  task  went  forward, 

The  Gutenberg  Knights  ruled  the  world. 
No  corner  where  darkness  still  lingered 

But  there  were  their  white  flags  unfurled, 
And  ever  some  great  Knight  Commander 

Took  the  lead  till  each  battle  was  won, 
Then  passed  on  his  sword  to  another 

When  his  work  in  the  great  cause  was  done. 

And  ne'er  shall  they  pause  till  is  finished 

The  task  that  the  Saviour  began. 
And  the  ages  to  come  shall  still  hail  them 

The  hope  and  the  bulwark  of  man. 
And  behold!  the  device  on  the  standard 

Of  today's  Knight  Commander,  the  first 
In  the  van  of  humanity's  soldiers, 

Is  the  "Monarch"— the  banner  of  HEARST. 


95 


A  LITTLE  WHILE 

Dear  friends,  who  gather  here  tonight, 
With  joy  and  jest  to  greet 

Another  milestone  on  the  path 
Worn  smooth  by  human  feet, 

'Tis  meet  we  speed  the  genial  hour 
With  mirth  and  song  and  smile — 

We're  here  but  such  a  little  while, 
Just  such  a  little  while. 

We're  here  just  such  a  little  while, 
We  scarcely  greet  the  dawn 

Before  the  noonday  sun  shines  down — 
Before  the  night  comes  on. 

No  matter  whether  Fortune  frowns 
Or  with  her  gifts  beguile, 

We're  here  just  such  a  little  while, 
Just  such  a  little  while. 

Just  time  to  lend  a  helpful  hand 
To  ease  a  comrade's  load; 

Just  time  in  life's  great  Marathon 
To  cheer  upon  the  road. 
95 


There  is  no  time  for  hatred  here, 

For  envy  or  for  guile, 
We're  here  but  such  a  little  while, 

Just  such  a  little  while. 

Then  let  us  take  away  tonight 
The  smiles  we  kindle  here, 

To  light  our  way  on  every  day 
Through  all  the  coming  year. 

We  have  but  time  in  life's  short  span 
To  love,  to  hope,  to  smile — 

We're  here  but  such  a  little  while, 
Just  such  a  little  while. 


97 


TO  A  DEAD  CHILD 

And  have  you  gone  forever,  child, 

My  own  dear  little  son? — 
A  bud  that  faded  ere  its  dew 

Had  vanished  in  the  sun. 

The  lonely  house  is  haunted  now, 

And  whispers  of  the  dead ; 
I  dread  the  waking  morning  hour, 

The  evening  hour  I  dread; 

For  then  the  little  head  was  on 

My  happy  bosom  laid, 
Tho',  sometimes,  when  he  watched  the  stars, 

I  wept,  and  was  afraid. 

For  he  had  often  wished  that  when 

He  left  this  world  of  ours, 
The  birds  would  all  be  in  their  nests, 

And  his  sweet  friends,  the  flowers, 

Be  fast  asleep  and  would  not  know 

Their  playmate  strayed  so  far, 
And  all  he  loved  would  be  at  rest, 

Except  one  little  star, 
98 


"Because,"  he  said,  (his  little  head 

Was  full  of  fancies  odd,) 
"The  star  would  guide  the  angel  back 

That  took  his  soul  to  God." 


99 


WOMAN'S  DAY 

(Proposed  and  Initiated  by  the  San  Francisco 
Examiner,  September  2nd,  1919,  as  a  Perm 
anent  Anniversary  of  Tribute  to  the  Women 
War  Workers  of  America.} 

Now  that  the  cheers  and  the  salvoes 

Of  guns  from  our  bulwarks  of  steel 
Are  stilled,  and  the  trumpets  of  triumph 

Have  uttered  their  ultimate  peal ; 
Now  that  the  last  of  the  victors 

Has  passed   with   his  laurel-twined   wreath, 
Let  us  turn  from  the  pomp  of  the  pageant 

To  the  soul  of  it  all  underneath. 

For  though  they  have  won  the  vast  struggle 

That  bondsmen  have  waged  since  the  birth 
Of  the  ages,  and  planted  the  banner 

Of  Freedom  throughout  the  glad  earth; 
Though  well  they  have  earned  the  outpouring 

Of  praise  from  both  ally  and  kin, 
Ah !  braver  than  they  were  the  sad  ones 

Who  sent  them  to  die  or  to  win! 

Let  us  turn  and,  with  bowed  heads  uncovered, 
Give  tribute  more  deep  and  more  true 

To  the  spirit  that  lies  'neath  the  surface 
Of  God's  gift  to  me — and  to  you — 
100 


To  the  germ  at  the  heart  of  the  story 
Whose  tellers  we  welcome  today, 

To  the  real  fountainhead  of  its  glory — 
A  power  far  greater  than  they. 

For  since,  in  the  dim  dawn  of  legend, 

The  cave-dweller  knew  but  one  law, 
To  slay  or  be  slain,  was  the  man-child 

Born  ready  and  eager  for  war. 
For  him  is  no  harmony  sweeter 

Than  tocsin  that  calls  to  the  son 
To  fight  for  the  heritage  holy 

The  sword  of  his  sire  has  won. 

Not  his  is  the  pen  or  the  ploughshare 

When  Liberty's  legions  are  lined 
And  the  flag  of  his  heart  and  his  hearthstone 

Is  lifted  to  fly  in  war's  wind. 
His  birthright  the  bright  lure  of  danger, 

A  warrior  marshalled  by  Fate 
To  speed  to  the  forefront  of  battle 

As  a  bridegroom  hies  to  his  mate. 


But  what  of  the  women — his  women — 
The  mother — the  maid — and  the  wife? 

The  high  pride  than  conquers  the  heartache 
And  bids  him  go  forth  to  the  strife? 
101 


The  women  that  gather  the  harvest — 
That  toil   for  their  warrior's  cheer — 

The  women  whose  tireless  needles 
Are  rusted  by  many  a  tear? 

The  women  who  mother  war's  orphans, 

The  women  who  still  carry  on, 
And  face  with  proud  courage  the  dark  days 

From  which  all  life's  sunshine  has  gone; 
The  women  whose  love  and  whose  pity 

Bring  balm  to  the  suffer's  bed; 
The  women  whose  angel  wings  hover 

Alike  o'er  the  living  and  dead? 

'Tis  to  these,  that  are  more  than  mere  heroes, 

We  gather  our  homage  to  pay, 
To  hail  them  as  saints  and  as  martyrs 

Forever  on  this  Woman's  Day. 
For  theirs  is  the  measureless  burden — 

The  sacrifice,  sorrow  and  loss. 
'Tis  theirs  to  be  waiting — still  waiting 

As  of  old,  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 


102 


A  MAY  QUEEN 

Once  as  I  loitered  out  the  day 

Beside  a  murmuring  rill, 
An  angel,  bearing  blooms  of  May 

Passed  down  the  wayside  hill. 

The  lily  with  the  rose  contends 

To  tint  her  winsome  face, 
The  lily  that  the  ripple  bends 

Hath  not  her  perfect  grace 

And  like  the  lily  gemmed  by  showers 
She  floateth  on  her  way, — 

'Tis  meet  the  virgin  queen  of  flowers, 
Should  be  the  Queen  of  May. 

But,  as  I  breathless  watched  her  pass, 

Snared  in  her  posy  chain, 
My  heart  stole  after,  and,  alas! 

It  ne'er  came  back  again. 

And  that  is  why  when  daisies  start 

To  greet  fair  Flora's  day 
I  sigh  for  that  still  truant  heart, 

That  phantom  Queen  of  May. 


103 


SOUL 

We  talk  of  souls — soul  is  the  will  of  man, 
The  inward  urging  that  cries  out  /  can! 
That  buoys  life's  swimmer  as  he  struggles  on 
Through    storm    and    darkness    to    fulfillment's 

dawn ; 

While  he  who  falters  e'er  he  gains  the  shore 
Sinks  to  oblivion — and  is  known  no  more. 


104 


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Poems, 




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